George Martin - Lowball

Marcus didn’t hesitate in answering. The words just came straight from his heart to his mouth. And that was it. He was committed.

“Diversified content.”

Going by her voice alone, the assistant was a young woman, no older than early twenties, filled with attitude. Or so it seemed to Jamal Norwood when he called Berman’s office.

Jamal identified himself. “I’d like to speak to Mr. Berman.”

“And you are?” There it was again! As if Jamal had interrupted her at curing cancer or, more likely, repairing her nail polish.

“Jamal Norwood, also known as Stuntman. Mr. Berman knows me.”

The assistant sighed, as if the effort of doing her very basic job was some kind of imposition. “Hold on.”

The waiting music turned out to be hundred-strings versions of past Berman television theme songs. Which suggested to Jamal that Diversified was more than just a vanity card, Berman, and an assistant-that it might be a real production company.

The former producer of American Hero had his office in the Brill Building on Forty-ninth and Broadway, just north of Times Square. The eleven-story structure had been home to various songwriters, Broadway impresarios, and jumped-up television producers for the past seventy years. Jamal’s SCARE research turned up a fifth-floor office number belonging to a Diversified Content, a name that was a perfect fit for Berman’s smarmy self-conceit.

A bit of shoe leather reconnaissance would have told Jamal whether or not it was a real operation-DC was listed as a company that had “under twenty” employees, which could mean nineteen, or one. One employee would be easy to deal with. A dozen or more and Jamal’s off-the-books operation would be outed.

He had considered an ambush interview at Berman’s Upper East Side condo, especially since getting that home address had been a greater challenge. (The condo was owned by another of the producer’s endless supply of personal service entities.)

But ambushes were tough to accomplish when you were in a hurry and your window of available time was narrow. Yes, you could stake out the man’s condo and catch him on his way to work, if you had that time-which Jamal didn’t.

The other option was to hit him coming home-but that could just as easily have been ten P.M. after a business dinner as seven.

He didn’t want to spend three or four hours lurking without payoff.

A quick cost-benefit analysis convinced Jamal to simply phone the man at Diversified. And here he was, on the speaker. “Jamal Fucking Norwood!”

Jamal wondered who else was in the office with him. “Do I have a new middle name?”

“That’s been your middle name since 2007,” he said, laughing. “To me.”

“Oh, good, I was afraid this was going to be contentious,” Jamal said.

“You knew it was dangerous when you called me,” Berman said. “What’s on your mind? Is this about your new gig? Gonna say good-bye to being a G-man?”

“What new gig?”

“I hear you’re top of Cinemax’s want list for I Witness .”

Jamal was momentarily stunned to silence. It wasn’t impossible that Berman would know about the script-scripts floated around Hollywood like dandelion puffballs. But even Jamal didn’t know that the project had been set up at Cinemax … which made it slightly more attractive as an alternative to SCARE. Assuming Jamal was ever strong enough to be Stuntman again. “No,” he said, hoping his voice projected more confidence than he felt, “I’m still working for the national interest.”

“Schmuck. What’s on your mind?”

“I need to ask you some questions. About an investigation.”

Suddenly Berman was off speakerphone. “Did I miss your transfer to the IRS?”

“Would it speed things up if I said this was an audit?”

“Not a chance. You’d have to get in line for that.” Jamal heard thumping on a desktop-Berman obviously turning the phone or re-arranging some item. “If it’s not my money, it’s what?”

“There are some DVDs floating around that are going to cause someone to go to jail. And they all tie back to American Hero .”

Jamal had the satisfaction of shutting Berman up for an entire ten seconds. “Well, then, it obviously behooves me to share what I know with law enforcement. When do you want to talk?”

“Let’s start with right now.”

“Let’s revise that to two hours from now, my place.”

“Okay.” Berman rattled off an address that matched what Jamal had discovered.

Then, without a good-bye or even a parting shot, Berman was off the phone.

Which was good. Jamal needed to lie down for an hour. Of course, what he really needed was a shower to remove the taint of a conversation with Michael Berman.

The moment Jamal emerged from the cab at Berman’s building, he was forced to make a further adjustment in his evaluation of the man’s current success.

Berman’s condo was in a building at 675 Madison Avenue, near Sixty-second a block east of Central Park. The building looked like an expensive hotel, the effect enhanced by its ground-floor tenant, a high-end English lingerie store. Jamal could easily picture Berman stopping on his way into or out of the building, window-shopping the models … possibly telephoning their agents while he smudged the window with his nose.

Jamal found the entrance, which was discreetly tucked to one side, and a doorman who granted him access to the elevators.

On this May evening, Michael Berman, creator and executive producer of American Hero, former CBS vice president of reality programming, current asshole for life, was still on the south side of forty-which, to Jamal Norwood, seemed impossible. He was one of those creatures that grew like mushrooms in Hollywood. More clever than smart, greedy to the point of idiocy, entirely lacking in moral standards, over-sexed, operating on the principle that what was theirs was theirs, what was yours was negotiable, possessing only a single useful skill … the ability to give an audience the things it wants.

Things that are bad for it. Empty calories. Heroin.

He opened the ornate door, and showed that the years had not been kind. True, he was wearing his Berman casual uniform of pressed jeans and tailored white dress shirt unbuttoned a button too far. But he had gained weight: his paunch strained the lower third of the shirt. And he had lost what little hair he had possessed in American Hero days. Then Berman had rarely been seen without a baseball cap.

“Boy,” he said by way of greeting, “and I thought I looked like shit.” Jamal knew that he had gained weight, too-thank you, hotel and restaurant food. And while there was no hair loss, he was moving slowly and looking sickly.

But then, strangely, Berman offered Jamal a hug.

“Checking for weapons?” Jamal said.

“Come on, man, we’re foxhole buddies.”

“From opposing armies.”

Berman pointed an index finger at Jamal-his way of saying, good one . He indicated that Jamal should take a seat in the beautifully furnished living room, all white floors and rug, glass and white furnishings. “Something to drink or eat?”

“No thanks. On duty.”

“That’s it, remind me that I’m in a world of trouble.”

“Since when do you need a reminder?”

Another finger, as Berman yelled, too loudly for the space, “Mollie, darling!”

Not unexpectedly, Berman wasn’t alone.

“This is Mollie Steunenberg. Mollie, Jamal Norwood, the Stuntman. He’s also an agent of SCARE, so be careful what you tell him.”

Mollie offered her hand. She was a plump little redhead, maybe a year past twenty, wearing heels that were higher than absolutely necessary and a greenish summery dress that was so short as to be unappealing to anyone this side of a recent parolee. Someone had probably told Mollie that redheads should wear green. Not that green, young lady .